


Oh God, Make Me Good (But Not Yet)

by asuralucier



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anointment, Flagrant Use of Latin, Homo Sacer, Living Tattoos, M/M, Pining, Religious Symbols and Rituals, Sex Magic, The sinner kind of keeps sinning because he likes the priest, Unhealthy Power Dynamics, Urban Fantasy, Whipping, bathing and washing, costume porn - academic regalia, period setting, secret societies and cults
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-03 00:04:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21170114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: Stephen has made another Mistake.





	Oh God, Make Me Good (But Not Yet)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sombregods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sombregods/gifts).

> This took a village! Huge thank yous go to my betas Gammarad et all. All remaining weirdness and ahem, mistakes, are mine.

> _To Eden with me you will not leave_  
_To live in a cottage of crazy crooked eaves _  
_Something scurries behind and finds a cosy place to stare,_  
_Something sent to you from paradise, with serpents to spare:_  
_Tongues flowering; they leap out laughing, laughing, disappear!_
> 
> "Les Fleurs", Thomas Ligotti

* * *

Stephen had, in modern parlance, really fucked the dog on this one.

Not an hour after the unfortunate incident involving one Miss Daisy Newell, the police had come calling at his residence, which Stephen rented from the university at a tuppence. Then he’d received another call, in a similar official capacity but not from the authorities, that Harold Arden would be paying him a visit the very next day, at half noon.

At precisely half noon, Stephen greeted his visitor before his visitor even rang the bell. Although he hadn’t been given much of a warning, he’d spent the whole morning sanitising his apartment and making the space presentable for guests. After that, he’d gone to the corner shop to stock up on semi-skimmed milk, tea, coffee, and biscuits. He knew at some stage he would offer his visitor refreshments and they would be refused, but habits both good and bad were what kept the world spinning. He could think that even now. Besides, while Harold Arden would refuse the refreshments, there were others, who would come hungry.

“I suppose you think this is funny,” Harold Arden said as he neatly toed off his shoes. They were shiny black Oxfords, a staple of his job during the day. Harold Arden worked as an accounts manager at a reputable firm on Bright Street just a brisk walk from Stephen’s apartment. He went on: "The police came to see me at work, to inquire about you. It's even worse than the last time. What's the use of having a fine mind if your skull is so thick?"

Stephen took Harold Arden’s coat from him after the older man shed it like an unwanted second skin. Stephen hung it up for him on the coat rack, and Stephen suddenly remembered that his own coat, which sat on the next hook, desperately needed a trip to the dry-cleaner’s. During his last encounter with Miss Newell, Stephen had come away with an unfortunate souvenir, a red stain above the left cuff of his sleeve. Currently, the offending sleeve was stuffed inside the left pocket of the coat. 

Stephen said, not too hopefully, "Do you think I have a fine mind, Father?"

It was only when Harold Arden - Father Arden - stepped through the threshold of Stephen’s consecrated abode that Stephen dared to speak. Every abode in which an Assembly devotee lived was consecrated ground. Stephen’s future as one such devotee was uncertain for the moment, but that would soon be ascertained, one way or the other.

"The university seems to, not that I trust their judgment." Father Arden smiled thinly at nothing in particular. "You've put us all in danger, Professor. Now that the police know where to look, they won't be able to help themselves. They'll come back again and again to smell the same shit."

"I'm sorry."

Stephen thought he was, in a way.

Some of Stephen's other Mistakes had involved the police before, but he supposed that was neither here nor there. Those Mistakes were not this one, and he could smell it in the air, now faintly tinged with Father Arden's cologne. The scent was sharp and musky, and Stephen thought to himself that finally, this time would be different.

"You're not, really."

Stephen shrugged.

"Anyway, I've only taken an hour for lunch. I have a meeting with our Paris office. Provided, of course, that the phones behave.”

Like every other devotee, the Moreish provided unto Father Arden, but the Father was most unusual. He believed in understanding the trappings of the human world in order to experience the full blessing of the Moreish, as was his right. He took his duties to the Assembly and also to Blenkmann Harper equally seriously. These two contradictory strands somehow entwined themselves anyway, and made up Father Arden's _opus vitae_.

Stephen nodded at this. It was only when Father Arden mentioned the unreliability of the telephone that he realised that he hadn't received any other calls apart from Father Arden's. He looked towards his front door and waited for a knock to sound or the bell to ring. Usually, the others would be here by now.

"Where are the others, Father?" Stephen asked.

"The others have better things to do than to witness your stupidity yet again, Professor. I've told them they needn't come."

The abrupt tone of Father Arden's voice invited no further questions, and Stephen was happy enough to oblige. The Mistake of crossing Father Arden was one even he knew not to make.

*

Father Arden had a dark bag with him for the occasion at hand, and Stephen mentioned that the man could use his bedroom to ready himself. Father Arden thanked him and did so without asking for directions.

After a moment of hesitation, Stephen followed. He found that Father Arden hadn’t completely shut the door to his bedroom. Through the tiny sliver, Stephen was granted the most enticing view. He was careful to hold his breath, as the college porter who’d enthusiastically hawked him this fourth floor extravaganza had been kind enough to mention to Stephen that the walls and floors sometimes echoed and squeaked. Then porter than opined that it was best whenever a man's abode kept him honest. Stephen politely and privately disagreed.

There was a distance between gods, those blessed and touched by the Moreish, and then finally, mere mortal men asleep on their feet found everywhere; if there wasn’t, the world would simply descend into chaos. But it seemed to Stephen, at this exact moment and for all the years he'd known Father Arden, that the man traversed this difficult spectrum with ceaseless grace and sincerity.

Father Arden’s movements as he undressed were deliberate and unhurried. It was unclear to Stephen whether he was luxuriating in the privacy of this ritual, or that he was so used to being watched that the dramatics of motion sat naturally upon his frame. First, Father Arden removed his tie, and then his shirt. After that, he undid his belt and stepped out of his trousers. All these articles of clothing were discarded from his body, but then each were laid out once more upon Stephen’s mattress with the utmost care, as if Father Arden was already counting ahead.

Father Arden was not a young man, but there was something about certainty and the steadiness of his whole damn self, as affixed on his body, that fascinated Stephen to no end. There were wrinkles on his skin and a fine shock of silver in his hair, like loud hallmarks of a carefully aged vintage port. Stark naked, Father Arden bent over to retrieve two garments from his bag. The first was something familiar enough to Stephen, having worn a version of an academic gown many times as part of formal dinners that took place in the spacious, palatial dining hall of Demery College where he served as a member of staff.

“It’s rude to stare, Professor,” said Father Arden with his back still turned, and a knot formed in Stephen’s throat.

“I suppose I begin as I mean to go on, and go on as I mean to be,” said Stephen, inching the door open wider so he could step into the room “Would you like a coffee?”

“I would not,” said Father Arden, honestly but not cruelly.

There was living ink on Father Arden's body. The Trinity of Moreish Messengers: A raven, black-winged and black-eyed, wrapped around his left shoulder; a rat, scurrying across his belly in anticipation, and finally, the head of a serpent, peeking almost shyly around the inside of Father Arden's thigh. It stuck its forked blue tongue at Stephen and Stephen nearly smiled at it.

Father Arden was still watching him closely. "You do think this is funny."

Stephen swallowed. "No."

The second piece of clothing was less familiar, buth Stephen thought he recognised it as a _cappa clausa_. Father Arden slipped it on over his gown. After adjusting his sleeves, he set to fiddle with the long ribbons meant to knot around his throat. The outer habit was a deep burgundy colour, with an ermine shoulder piece, and Stephen’s fingers suddenly ached with an uncanny longing. Having donned this appropriate costume, he made to remove the last piece of the human world from his person. Stephen watched as Father Arden carefully unbuckled the leather strap of his watch and laid it on the end table beside Stephen's bed.

Blessed (or perhaps cursed!) with a sudden burst of courage, Stephen stepped up to Father Arden and touched him, dragging his fingers along the curve of the other man's shoulder, slipping boldly underneath the soft material of his clothes. At first, Father Arden pretended not to notice, and then there was an uncanny glint in his eye, as if he understood. Perhaps he had, all along.

"Professor."

"Stephen," said Stephen, overcome. "Please say my name once, I promise I'll stop making Mistakes. I don't want this to be like all of the other times, don't you see?"

"Why do you think I've absolved the others from coming, Stephen?" Father Arden sat down. At first he started to on Stephen's bed, and then chose the floor instead. Stephen fought the urge to sink to his knees and beg, but somehow, even as his throat had tightened and his mouth had gone dry, he held firm.

Stephen had attended other punitions before; it was an unavoidable thing. He was a regular enough janker, but there were certainly others. The punitions themselves, no matter who was participating, were always witnessed by other members, mostly in a reception room, or sometimes, in secluded gardens if the weather allowed. From time to time, Stephen would tear his eyes away from Father Arden to observe the others. Most wore awestruck, horrified expressions, and Stephen always felt far away from them.

"The Moreish are displeased with you, you know. They've caught on, that you've gone and made yourself a mindless janker. That you never seem to learn," said Father Arden. He reached out a hand towards Stephen and Stephen took it reverently, smoothing his thumb across the man's weathered knuckles.

"But I do learn," Stephen told him. "Just maybe what they don't expect me to." 

*

"Undress for me," said Father Arden.

Although he was still seated on the floor with his hands laced on top of his knees, Father Arden still spoke in his full capacity as a Moreish messenger. He rose to his feet and the uncanny depth of his voice sent a rush of blood all the way down and made Stephen's cock twitch. He obeyed promptly, stepping out of his trousers first, and then pulled his shirt with most of the buttons still done up over his head.

Once he did so and discarded his clothing all to one side, Stephen was suddenly struck with how puerile and unmarked his own body appeared to be. He was aware of this lack in himself, even though Stephen was not so young, nor was he without his share of carnal experience. Despite his earlier show of bravado and his faith in all that had changed between them, Stephen was still nervous. The anxiety was unlike anything he'd ever felt; it was easy enough, after all, to parse the anxiety that overtook him. He was familiar enough with the stages of punition, but as Father Arden had already intimated, this was to be something else.

It was also drafty in his bedroom, which drew Stephen's attention to the fact that things were already different. He exhaled, and tried to relax. Punitions never took place in a devotee's bedroom, but neither of them suggested a move elsewhere. From his bag, Father Arden took out a thin whip; the instrument was made out of braided leather and Stephen turned around before he could be asked to. The whip looked cleaned, cleaner than the last time Stephen had had the pleasure of seeing it, which was admittedly not that long ago, either.

The Messengers had minds of their own, one of the raven's talons ripped through the _cappa clausa_ and the serpent weaved its way through the burgundy velvet as if it were hunting in the grass.

This part of the punition was not new to Stephen, but the last time and all the times that had come before, he'd kept his hands balled up tight at his side as to keep his secrets to himself. Often, he wondered about Father Arden's sex life, if he'd ever gone to bed with any of the other devotees, or indeed, anyone from the outside, and what he told people about the Moreish messengers that took up residence on his skin.

Father Arden also retrieved from his bag, a small perfume glass of oil. He rubbed some onto his fingers and had Stephen spread his arms. Slowly, Father Arden rubbed sweet-smelling oil into his skin, and Stephen bit his lip trying not to make any sound. Then he said, "This isn't punition."

"And so it isn't." Father Arden didn't disagree. He had his hand on Stephen's cock, and Stephen let out a sigh. "Turn around." 

The first lash came, and Stephen cried out, a little boyish sound, as if the sting drew out of him something he'd long forgotten.

And then the second and third lashes followed, not long afterwards, and Stephen tried to imagine what kind of picture Father Arden was painting to please the Moreish, if the messengers on his body would soon move to placate in the other realm on Stephen's behalf for his transgressions. As the lashes continued at measured intervals, Stephen wrapped a hand around himself where Father Arden's grip had been just before. He'd never done that before. Usually, that was later, something done in private and shame. Stephen pressed his thumb against the head of his cock and shuddered.

He waited for the next lash, but it did not come. Stephen tried to turn his head but then felt a very strong grip, almost inhumanly strong, clamp down at the back of his neck so he couldn't.

"What are you doing?"

Stephen swallowed thickly, and stilled his hand, "Making the most of it. I always want the wrong things. At least this time, I'll want you the right way. It, I mean."

He must have said the right thing, even if he'd said it the wrong way, in the end, for Father Arden laughed. The sound sat ill on his person, but Stephen clung to the sound and wanted to hear it again. There was a brief rustling sound, when Father Arden put down the whip.

"Go to the bed, Stephen."

Stephen did, somehow relieved, a small trail of blood followed him and stained the heel of his left sock. He sat, and watched as the serpent wrapped itself snugly about Father Arden's neck like a necklace of exquisite jewels. It also relieved Stephen, to spy an obvious tenting even within the loose billow of Father Arden's regalia.

"Is this truly what you want? Sex is a base instinct, making you no better than a wild animal."

"And yet you have three of them on your body," said Stephen. He would have never had the nerve to speak this way to Father Arden before, but he found that he liked it, shocking him, and maybe the man liked it too. 

"Don't speak like some lowly janker, Stephen," said Father Arden reprovingly. "You are better than that."

"Make me better." Stephen looked at him. "Make me good."

"Do you want to be good? You've never wanted to, before, Professor." Father Arden touched his back and came away with his fingers sticky and wet. "On second thought, let's not ruin your sheets, shall we? Lie on your side." He wiped his fingers on the edge of the _cappa clausa_. The serpent reared its head and licked at the stain until the material was clean again.

Stephen was already decently hard, and the rest of him more than decently warm. He thought about saying that he didn't give a shit about his sheets but did as he was told.He felt Father Arden settle behind him and his mouth ghosted along the curve of Stephen's shoulder. They'd left the permutations of the punition and entered into wholly uncharted territory. He felt Father Arden's fingers, still slick with the oil, slide into him and opened him up. He rutted back into them, thinking not of the Moreish, but of their Messenger.

When he felt the promising thick head of Father Arden's dick, a little whine nearly clawed out of Stephen's throat. Oh, how he wanted. How he wanted to be made something else than just a sinner who wanted Father Arden in his consecrated apartment defiled by the human condition.

"From today, you will belong to the Moreish, Stephen. No longer will you concern yourself with the wills of men or the tenets of this world in which you live."

Father Arden's voice, somehow now singularly in command of a chorus, pierced through man-made history and made Stephen's name into a living thing. Such promise and cognition of his name as a living, breathing thing now entangled with celestial quality excited him and he let out an involuntary moan when the dark serpent slithered up from Father Arden's thigh to imprint itself upon Stephen's body as they were tangled together.

The silky scales of the serpent prickled Stephen's skin and seemed to leave a lovely tremor low in his loins whenever Father Arden moved his hips, thrusting forward and fucking him. Near the pinnacle of his orgasm, the serpent on Father Arden's body sank down its fangs into Stephen's shoulder, and a rush like white iron rushed into his body and forced him elsewhere. Stephen left his body, and then came back to it, his vision filled with the other realm, of how the world should be.

*

Later, Father Arden drew Stephen a bath and washed him very carefully with a bar of luminous green soap recently purchased from A. H. Thropwhistle's in town. Not quite lucid and languidly fevered from their recent encounter, Stephen watched as he undressed again and hung both the gown and the habit on shined metal hooks behind the door. 

Then the man knelt next to him, and Stephen's fine mind in his thick skull floated somewhere else as Father Arden worked soap very thoroughly through his hair; some of the suds got into his eyes and he didn't even notice. Instead, Stephen thought about how he would explain this to the others, and then remembered that he didn't have to. No one would question Father Arden or the will of the Moreish.

There was a mark that bloomed out of his skin where the teeth of the blood-black serpent had bitten Stephen on his shoulder. Unlike his other punitions, when afterwards he would feel empty and guilty and ashamed, this time he felt sated, even fulfilled. A slow warming poison threaded beneath his skin, and he felt the eyes of the Moreish, ever keen and sharp, grow along his veins. It was an odd, unsettling, and yet an ultimately satisfying feeling.

Stephen twisted around to examine the mark. It was dark blue, and it was alive; in the coming days, he could foresee it becoming more and more a part of him. The serpent was now curled up again along Father’s Arden’s thigh in its rightful place. It looked sleepy and spent and when Stephen touched the inside of Father Arden’s thigh, where the head of the serpent rested, the creature’s narrow inky eyes looked at him, but otherwise made no attempt to move. The raven had its head turned away and so had the rat. It’d scurried from its usual place on Father Arden’s belly.

The lashes on his skin still stung, but Stephen could feel the warmth from the bite seep in underneath the open wound, mingled with Father Arden's teasing, gentle tongue.

"Tell me, Stephen," said Father Arden after he'd pulled away, "are you familiar with the lot of the _homo sacer_?" Now the sharp cleansing sensation of the soap was scalding at his wounds, much like the spill of hot iron that had entered into him at the height of his earlier pleasure, and Stephen didn't mind that either.

"The fine folk at Demery College are under the impression that I do. But maybe they don't know much, do they, Father?" said Stephen with a little scalding laugh of his own. "I teach it to my finalists. The lot of the _homo sacer_ is visited upon the man who is Marked by the gods. Their offense is such that only those who he has so sinned against can offer him reprieve." The more Father Arden spoke Stephen's name, the more his earthly responsibilities floated away from him and he felt less and less himself. "Is that what I am now? Protected and damned?" There was an itch at the corner of his eye, and Stephen tried not to scratch, lest he get soap into his eyes. 

Father Arden said, "Does it bother you? If that indeed what you are?"

Stephen tried to think about the ties he had to this world. Even if his colleagues at Demery were not the _creme de la creme_, even if he didn't particularly enjoy being in their company, there were other considerations. For instance, Stephen's rent was inexpensive, but his accommodation was also inextricably tied to his employment at the university. He started to say this to Father Arden, but the man hushed him with a raised hand.

"Do you really have so little faith? They shall provide for you, even now, even as your devotion has been misplaced onto me." Father Arden said, "You'll still remain a cornerstone at Demery, but for your sake and everyone else's, I wouldn't question it too much." Then he checked his watch. "I need to go. I'll be late for my meeting."

"But will you come see me later?" asked Stephen hopefully, feeling the beginnings of sleep starting to tug at him. "After your meeting with Paris?"

"I suppose I could make some time. I might even do something about your coat. It's rather a disgrace," said Father Arden. He leaned forward to press a chaste kiss on Stephen's damp, warm temple. Then, he stood and left Stephen to ponder at last, this worthwhile Mistake in lukewarm water stained with sanctified blood.


End file.
